They're Only Words

You never should have read her journal. That was a bad idea. But, then, you never would have known how bad an idea it was until you had done it, right? I mean, you wouldn’t know the things you know now. The things that make it seem like a bad idea. And are these things best left unknown? Now that you know them, you wish you didn’t. But they were there. Those feelings and thoughts. And if they were important enough to write down, you can be sure that the topic would’ve come up eventually.

But did you need to know this? What can you do with this information? Besides torture yourself over it. If she were here you could confront her, and yes, you’d have to deal with explaining why you read her journal, but at least you could get her to put the whole thing into context. Maybe clarify why she wrote this about you. Instead she is in Florida and you are here in New York with these words in her journal.

Words. Just a grouping of words. That’s all they are. And you can read them and feel however you want about them. Because they don’t have the author’s voice to give them life. Make them dance. If she had told you this in a conversation you wouldn’t dwell on it like you are now. No. These thoughts have been preserved on paper and can be looked at over and over again, and whatever you feel at the time will give them new meaning.

Bullshit. There is only one meaning to this group of words. They are pretty simple and plain. You are the least attractive of the men [she’s] dated. Yep. That pretty much sums it up. Don’t know what other context you could put it in. Those are her words. And she felt so strongly about that thought she was compelled to write it down. In her journal. Which you are reading.

Perhaps there are a few more nuggets of information for you to stumble across. You flip through the journal to see if there is any mention of your lovemaking skills or lack thereof. As you scan the pages you reflect on the men [she’s] dated. Because you have been compared to them specifically. You are not the least attractive man on the planet, at least. Just of the men [she’s] dated.

You’ve only seen these men in pictures. But none of them were drop dead gorgeous. Pretty average. You’ve been friends with enough women that you can tell the type of men most find attractive. You know a good-looking guy when you see one. And these guys didn’t pass muster as far as you were concerned. In fact you had labored under the delusion that you had the upper hand in that category compared to these dregs. Now your world has been shattered. Your whole self-image has been called into question. That’s what makes the phrase so devastating.

Sure you’ve never been told you were handsome and most of the women you’ve dated have claimed it was your personality that won them over rather than your looks, but you’ve never been called out like this. To be labeled the least attractive of a group of men. A group of men you can’t see as being the cream of the crop, no less.

You want to call every woman you know and have them look through her photo album. The photo album you just pulled from the bookshelf. The one of all her ex-boyfriends. Why does she have a photo album of ex-boyfriends? You never questioned it before. Thought it was sweet. The kind of thing girls do. You still keep some pictures of your exes laying around. Now you know that she keeps this photo album to remind herself that she once dated men more attractive than you.

But are they? You’ve dated women who are more attractive than her. You don’t feel the need to write it down in a journal, but you have. If you called up these women, if they would talk to you, you’re sure they wouldn’t find these guys so stunning. They’d probably agree that you weren’t the least attractive of the bunch.

Why did she have to write that down? Never mind that you were snooping through her things while she’s away on business. You had found the journal, a simple 9 1/2 x 6 1/2 Mead notebook with a green cover, while looking for an itinerary she had printed out before she left and forgot to take with her. She had called for an email address that was listed on the itinerary she’d forgotten and while you were searching through the pile of papers in her desk in an effort to retrieve it for her, you stumbled upon this notebook.

It didn’t even grab your attention immediately. You flipped through it during your search and saw the dated entries and a few personal-sounding notes. You felt guilty immediately and put it back where you found it. You had no intention of actually going back and reading it.

Until you started thinking about her co-worker Devin. The one she mentioned going on morning beach jogs with all week. The hippy hunchback. Sorry, Postural Kyphosis. She always corrected you on that. He was still a hippy. You got to thinking about all the times she mentioned Devin, and how fond she was of him as a person. You thought he was a nice enough guy too. The couple of times you’d met him. The first time you met he’d just gotten back from doing some Habitat for Humanity work. You had a friend who had done a few years work with that organization so you had some common ground. Your girlfriend had mentioned how much she liked people who built things and "worked with their hands". He was an amateur carpenter and she just loved that about him.

As you thought about their morning jogs together in Florida, you started to get a little jealous. So you had a beer and watched television. Then another. And several more. After finishing the six-pack in the fridge you decided to read her journal. You had not stopped thinking about the two of them. Together. She and this Birkenstocked Quasimodo. In Florida. If they were spending their mornings together, why not their nights? Funny how your mind wanders when you’re drunk and there’s nothing good on TV.

Perhaps you should check the television again. Maybe something half decent is on now. Something to take your mind off your least attractiveness. You should probably get some sleep too. Tomorrow’s another day, right? You flip through the notebook again and notice a page that has been torn out. You wonder what she may have written that she felt she needed to tear it out. Was it about you? Was this the entry about your lovemaking? You never should have read her journal...